


Porn Without Problems

by MyEvilTwin (ProtoNeoRomantic)



Series: C'est Trope Mal [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Doogie Howser MD, Kinder- und Hausmärchen | Grimm's Fairy Tales
Genre: "Hey I'm not wearing underwear!", Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Balcony Sex, Biblical References, Bitchy Cordelia, Buffy is Special, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Coitus Ensues, Come as Lube, Conceits, Contraception, Cunnilingus, Declarations Of Love, Despair, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Dubiously Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Dues Sex Machina, Episode: s03e01 The Summer of '91., Episode: s03e05 Homecoming, Episode: s04e09 Something Blue, Euphemisms, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Faith opens up to Willow, Fanfiction, Fantasy, Flashbacks, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Free Will, Goldilocks Elements, Grinding, Guilt, Heroic Xander, Innocent Xander, Interrupted Sex, Library Sex, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, Lust, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Magical Accidents, Memory Loss, Meta, Minor Character Death, Multi, Multiple Partners, Naughty Willow, No Contraception, Oops we bumped into sex, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Penis Size, Porn With Plot, Red Riding Hood Elements, Reproductive Roulette, Retcon, Rimming, Romantic Fluff, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sadness, Semi-Public Sex, Sequel: Selective Amnesia to begin posting 2017, Sex Magic, Sexual Roleplay, Shameless Smut, Simultaneous Orgasm, Snow White & Rose Red, Snow White Elements, Soul What Soul?, Souled Vampire(s), The Big Bad Wolf - Freeform, The Glitter May be wearing off, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threesome - F/F/F, Threesome - F/M/M, Tropes, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Sex, Werewolves, Willow Owes Someone Cookies, Willow writes fanfic, Worldly Giles, accidental orgasm denial, accidental sexual contact, amateur vampire slaying, bullwhip, clitoris size, creepy dialogue, easy peasy female orgasms, implausible exposition solves everything, mild/ambiguous S&M, shaved snatch, some Canon Dialogue, tabletop sex, the wondrous variety of female anatomy, unshaved snatch, way too much fun to write, who's for seconds?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2070237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/MyEvilTwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When her feelings for Xander make her too miserable to go to the Homecoming Dance with Oz, Willow does a spell to have her will done... then wishes life could be as simple as her old Doogie Howser fanfics.</p><p>Now the Proud Runner Up for 'Porn Without Plot' at the 2015 Willowy Goodness Awards</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Having It Both Ways

**Author's Note:**

> For more information on Canon Compliance/Divergence and Story Mechanics and Themes, see series description.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow thinks the spell was a total flop... until Angel shows up, very much UNdead again. She doesn't do a whole lot of thinking after that.

Random picture from the internet

 

“ _Oh, Wanda,”Doogie gasped, “You're the one, you're the only one. Making love to you is so beautiful and perfect. Your name is written on my heart!” And literally it was. She was his soulmate. Their love was pure an perfect and without question, and it always would be. Forever. And forever hardly seemed long enough, though it was the only thing between them that wasn't long enough...._

“ _Oh, Vinnie,” Doogie sighed, into his best friend's ear, licking his lobule. “I love you so much! I can't believe all these years I never knew we felt the exact same way about each other! Please part my passionate pulsating pink lips with your probing pubescent tongue!”_

“ _Oh, Doog,” Vennie moaned against his throat, “I'm so glad we stopped fighting this at last. You're the one for me Doog. You always have been. That must be why I kept getting sick whenever all those girls wanted to do it wit' me. I'm so glad I found my true love at last, the friend who's been with me all along. And hey, check out that package huh? Ain't no cold shower gonna take care o' that! Yeah, you know what I'm sayin'” ..._

“ _Oh Cecillia,” Doogie gasped, as she ripped her own shirt open, overcome with passion and spilled her full round breasts into his waiting hands. “I never knew research could feel this good!”_

_Cecillia grinned wickedly as she pulled him down on top of her and into her on the reading table in the library of Brentwood High School, where he was about to graduated as valedictorian and captain of the football team. “I'm so glad you decided to stay in high school,” she panted,“instead of taking the easy way out and trying to get into college early. It doesn't make you any less of a genius, and now you've grown up to be a real man!”...._

Willow sighed miserably, closed all the old files one by one, switched off her computer, and flopped down on her bed. Her huge pink T-shirt/Nightgown billowed around her. She lay on her stomach, chin in hands, propped on her elbows, sock feet waiving in the air. Like a little kid. But Willow wasn't a little kid anymore. The dress she'd meant to wear to the Homecoming Dance still hung on her closet door, mocking her. The black one with a slit clear up to her thigh that made her look like a woman. Too much woman for Xander to resist, too much a woman to resist him.

She had had to be 'sick'. It was the only way out. Even after that dumb “I Will It So” spell that Amy had insisted would be the answer to everything, her feelings for Xander just wouldn't go away. And what was worse, neither would her feelings for Oz. Oz, whom it seemed could resist anything, especially Willow. She had tried it both ways, but either way, her heart refused to change.

'Heart' Willow laughed derisively at herself. If she was being really honest, and at this point why not, Willow's heart was not what was giving her all this trouble... unless you meant 'heart' in the nineteenth-century-Gothic, God-please-drive-some-'wood'-into-my-throbbing-euphemism-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery sense. Love was not the issue. You could love as many people as you wanted to... as long as you didn't love them 'that way', as in the way where you fuck them. It was fucking more than one person (even if it was only in your heart and not your 'heart') that was the problem.

“God,” Willow complained aloud, to no one in particular, “why can't life be more like fanfic?” Why couldn't she just have a one shot, not-of-this-chronology romp with Xander and get it out of her system without ruining her chances with Oz? Better still, why not two long running parallel series in which each of them could be her one and only til the end of time, yet there could still be a time and a place for Giles bending her over a table in the library or Buffy getting suddenly femslashy (just to satisfy their mutual curiosity of course!) in the showers after gym class.

Willow's (totally detached and theoretical) thoughts of Buffy showering (her full, round breasts emerging one hard, dusky-pink nipple and broad, dark areola at a time as she washed the impossibly thick lather of soap from her lean, firm body in the hot spray of the shower nozzle, creamy suds running down her belly and bare thighs as the erstwhile covering of her soft pink lower lips was washed away like a sprig of fig leaves caught in a tropical storm) were interrupted by a sudden knock on her window. “Who is it?” Willow called nervously, not too loud because both of her parents were actually home. But she didn't wait for an answer. She felt suddenly too hot and agitated in every cell of her body to wait any length of time for anyone to do anything. She jerked open the French doors...!

And there was Angel, standing on her balcony. Just as she had found him once before. Only this time he was wearing a tight, torn muscle shirt that showed off his six-pack abs and washboard stomach. The knotty tree limbs of his ripped upper arms were expose to her hungry eyes, covered in nothing but a layer of glistening sweat. “Willow?” he gasped, his brow furrowing for a moment, even more deeply than his usual brood. Even though he was standing on her balcony, had just knocked on her window in fact, he seemed surprised to see her. Or maybe he was surprised by the way he was seeing her, Willow realized, as his eyes roved over her body, sheathed in that damp, too-tight pink cotton gown. Maybe it was seeing the way she was seeing him back that surprised the ensouled vampire in fact.

Willow's 'heart' longed to invite Angel in, but the knowledge of what had happened last time was still too fresh, still seared on her soul. Instead, she came outside and walked into his open arms. A moment of panic sent shivers through her whole body as he lifted her chin just a little bit roughly, overcome with passion, and claimed her mouth in a breathless kiss. Willow kissed Angel back just as fiercely, grabbing his leather clad ass, her nails biting into the smooth hide and into the cool flesh beneath. But the panic settled in the pit of her stomach, where it gave birth to two distinct species of butterflies.

There were tiny yellow ones beating their frantic wings to the memory of that same hand grasping that same chin as that same vampire threatened to kill her, a threat that was somehow both 'in fun' and honestly intended. There were great, huge gold and black ones, flapping slowly and ponderously to the idea that she was poaching on Buffy's territory, getting it on with her best friend's one true love behind her back even if they weren't still— Suddenly, Willow was struck like a bolt of lightning with the best cause for panic yet! Angel was dead! Not walking around dead, dead dead. Buffy had stabbed him to death a scant minute after Willow had restored his soul! A soul she now sensed that he still carried inside him. But how? How was he here with her now?

Willow was still shuddering with terror and confusion as the kissing and groping continued and rapidly progressed. She was stuffed, full to bursting with it in fact, with roiling inner turmoil, but she rode her passion through it, clutching desperately at Angel's button fly and pealing the leather from his skin to liberate his huge, hard cock. It popped free with an exuberant bounce, looking so eager and hopeful that Willow couldn't help but sink to her knees and take it into her mouth. She did more than suck his cock, she worshiped him with her mouth. “God! You smell like hot, wet eternity!” Angel groaned. “Your lips burn me cleaner than holy water!”

Strangely, Willow knew exactly what he meant. Angel's massive, swollen member felt icy cold on Willow's tongue, like licking a giant popsicle, yet paradoxically, the electric shivers that ran down her spine from the thrill of this cold contact sent heat rising from her swampy crotch, up though her thighs, belly and breasts until every inch of her skin was on fire with the heat of desire. The touch of her light cotton clothing felt unbearably heavy on that hot, hot skin. But the heat didn't dissipate when Angel (as if reading her mind) tore every stitch of clothing from her aching body. The butterflies in her stomach didn't go away either. They swooped and swarmed inside her, agitated by the heat.

Within a handful of minutes, Angel's passionate declarations gave way to the inarticulate, primordial grunting of sexual release. His sterile seed still burning cool in her throat, Willow, rose and looked into his eyes, half afraid that she would see a monster looking back at her... and maybe just a little sad to know that she wouldn't, that nothing she could do to his body would ever match what Buffy had done to his soul. She had meant to ask him (as soon as their oral copulation was complete) how it was that he lived again, how he had made the journey from Hell to Sunnydale. Somehow, looking into those still hungry and not altogether human eyes, she didn't dare. Besides, in the back of her mind she knew that even in a world as strange as fanfic, those kinds of awkward questions could lead to not getting fucked after all.

Instead, Willow bent over the balcony rail, exposing her bare ass and dripping cunt to his very appreciative view. Angel ran his cold fingers over her exposed flesh, sending them meandering like sinuous rills among the warm folds and valleys of her labia, making them both gasp with shock and pleasure. “Please, Angel!” Willow begged, her tongue made wantonly, unwontedly bold by it's recent liaison with his penis, “Fuck me! Make me come! Come inside me! Right now! Please!”

Angel seemed to be struggling with something. Probably not his conscience, Willow guessed, considering everything they had already done. It was only when he lost the struggle that Willow realized he had been fighting to stop his face from changing. So wild had she driven him with desire that, soul bearer though he was, the demon in him could not help but surface, longing to feed from her.

So, yeah, panic. Had she mentioned panic? Panic was now her constant friend and companion. But Angel was more than that. Angel was her lover! And now he was officially that; because, while she was standing there longing for him to, he pushed his cold, stiff cock inside her.

The balance of fluidity and friction, as he slid within her like a well oiled piston in it's own custom made cylinder, was perfect as the music of the spheres. The act itself was such a thing of beauty that Willow wept fat grateful tears as she moaned Angel's name over and over. Her moans turned to gasps as her breath quickened in rhythm with their joint motion as they slowly built to one long shared orgasm. For Willow knew that when they came, they would come together.

Willow clung to the railing with both hands, gripping it so that her knuckles were white. Her hips were locked in Angel's unthinkingly bruising grip. She savored these two slight pains as a counterpoint to the almost unbearable pleasure wracking her body. At last, Angel's cock spurted his now lukewarm semen inside Willow's vagina as that tight ring of muscular tissue squeezed and contracted around him in a seamless circular caress.

Angel's fluids had been warmed by the heat of Willow's ass bouncing against his balls, turning what had been shockingly cold into something merely cool, but still far from warm. In a fuzzy way, Willow thought that this could be a metaphor for something, but she didn't know or care exactly what. Despite the deep, intimate, pleasurable communion that she and Angel had just shared, despite the fact that he was still inside her, resting within her as if he belonged and meant to stay, she could still feel his other longing for her.

It burned. _He_ burned. For her. Willow Rosenberg. With hunger in the purist sense. Angel longed to feed from Willow, and she felt honored (and panicked) to able to offer him that gift. She pulled her hair back, exposing her neck, smiling a nervous, oddly shy smile. Angel chuckled deep in his throat. There was no separating what was human from demonic in that low, gravelly sound or in the grim amusement at her residual innocence that underlay it.

Angel kissed Willow's neck and then her ear, nibbling at it, but not seriously, not even enough to draw blood, as he whispered, “Stand up straight. Now it's my turn to get on my knees.” For a moment, Willow almost objected. She didn't think she could stand to be bitten on her genitals by a vampire. And the craziness of that thought brought rushing behind it the renewed realization of how crazy all of this really was.

“It's a spell,” she whispered. And somehow, for the moment at least, that made it seem alright, made it seem like literally anything would be alright. Willow did as Angel had commanded. She stood up straight and tall, holding on to nothing, surrendering to him, whatever his intentions. Softly, gently, languorously, he caressed her genitalia with his tongue until she had no choice but the buck her hips against his face. By superheroic effort, he manage to retract his teeth, to resume his human visage, so that her helpless, amorous motion didn't do her any harm.

Willow had to hold on to something. She gripped Angel's shoulders fiercely, thinking of the bruises on her own hips, hoping she wasn't hurting him. But she couldn't help it if she was, so instead she hoped he wanted to be hurt just a little too. Willow's nails bit into Angel's shoulders. She gasped in ecstasy as her whole body shuttered with her second orgasm in a quarter of an hour, which was maybe her fifteenth in her whole life. “Now that we are even,” Angel explained, still sounding amused, his lips not an inch from her over stimulated clitoris, “I can put myself in your debt again. If you'll oblige?” he added, softly caressing a smooth swath of her inner thigh, his fingers lovingly tracing the pulsating line of her femoral artery.

“Yes,” Willow breathed, besotted with the desire to satisfy every longing he could possibly have for her, “Yes, Angel. I will bleed for you. I want to. I want to run in your veins.”

“Then you will,” he told her. Willow held her breath the way she knew she wasn't supposed to do before getting a shot but always did anyway. But when he wrapped his powerful arms around her waist, locking her in his inescapable embrace, and sunk his fangs into her flesh, Willow knew she was hell and gone from vaccination 'pain'. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, bit it so hard in fact that she tasted blood, but she still couldn't keep from whimpering and crying. The agony went on for what seemed like an hour but was probably only a minute or two, before it receded to a dull ache as his hungry mouth withdrew from her flesh, satisfied at last, with what she suddenly felt must have been a little too much of her blood.

Willow tried to tell Angel that she felt lightheaded, that he needed to put some kind of pressure to her wound to stop the bleeding, but incredibly, it seemed to be already closing up. Willow guessed maybe that was how it worked. But she had other things to worry about. Because now she not only felt light headed, but sick to her stomach, dizzy, and uncomfortably aware of the swimming depths that seemed to stretch forever from her balcony to the lawn, one impossibly long story below. But Angel was talking now. “Oh, Willow,” he sighed. “I'm so lucky. I don't deserve to be so lucky twice in one lifetime... or three. To be so loved! You make me so—oh shit!” They both froze. Panic didn't begin to describe it. “Run,” Angel snarled in the back of his throat. “Get inside.” But his arms were still locked like an iron chain around her waist. And he wasn't letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well if you're like me (and odds are you're not) you're probably bitterly angry and disappointed to find that this isn't a true Doogie Howser crossover fic after all. Well, just cool your jets. It gets crossoverier... eventually.


	2. R&R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Xander rescues Willow from 'a fate worse than death', they share an embrace that will change their past, present and future.

“Oh, God!” Willow whimpered.

“To Hell with Him,” Angel purred against her suddenly cool skin, grinning viciously. The thing that had been fighting the demon was now totally extinguished. “You're body and blood are my only sacraments tonight.... Or is that analogy culturally insensitive?”

“I'll scream,” Willow tried to threaten, barely able to choke out the words.

“Good!” Angel declared with genuine relish and deep amusement. “I always thought your mom looked pretty bitable for a woman her age... but not nearly as sexy as your dad.” Willow's heart sank. Tears ran down her face. Angel sniffed her dripping cream-pie pussy and growled with both desire and annoyance. “I hate it when virgins don't bleed,” he snarled. “Most don't anymore. Tampons and vibrators and all that modern shit. But there's more than one way for a prick to tear a cunt!”

Willow really did have to bite her lip to keep from screaming as he stood and spun her around in one smooth, fluid motion, twisting her arms behind her back. The pain was not 'deliciously naughty' or any such thing as she might have secretly imagined 'rough sex' to be. It just fucking hurt. When he slammed her hard against the metal balcony railing, pinning her there with his well muscled body, that hurt even worse.

'Hey, Mystic Forces,' she thought frantically, angrily, 'Time out!' This was totally not what she had wished for in any way shape or form! Suddenly and inexplicably loosing her virginity to a mysteriously re-reanimated vampire who had drained her almost dry was one thing.  But damn it, Willow Rosenberg did not have rape fantasies! The men of her cream-lemon dreams were swashbuckling, dangerous, mysterious _heroes_. They may have been _dark_ knights, but their armor shined just the same.  If she had been the one writing this, her hero would be landing on this balcony at this very moment, as if having swung there on some inexplicable vine, and he would say something bold yet witty like...

“Hey, overbite, didn't your sire ever tell you not to play with your food!” Xander shouted, plowing into Angel, a massive wooden cross held before him, somehow causing the startled vampire to release Willow and tumble from the balcony without causing her any further injury.  Okay, technically, he had run out onto the balcony through the open French doors instead of 'landing' per se. But it would do! Besides, he looked like 007 in his cousin Rigby's tux.

Willow threw her arms around his neck, weeping uncontrollably. “Oh Xander,” she sobbed, thank God! If you hadn't come along...”

“Let's get inside,” he said determinedly, sounding not so much frightened as prudently concerned. And very much in control. Then, to Willow's surprise and delight, he scooped her up into his arms like a bridegroom and carried her across her own threshold, depositing her gently onto the neatly made bed that she didn't actually remember making.  Xander half stumbled onto the bed, so that he lay beside her, leaning over her, propped up on his arm and side. His breath caught as he took in the sight of her naked body, as if he hadn't noticed her nakedness before, in full rescue mode.

Willow felt an unsettling mixture of excitement, gratitude and shame. She was acutely aware of Angel's semen running down the inside of her leg, but Xander seemed not to notice. His eyes were filled with worshipful desire. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, deep and passionately, hands roving over her body. Willow clung to him, kissing and nuzzling his face, neck and chest for all she was worth, but sobbing harder than ever. Xander pulled back a little, held her face gently in both of his hands. “What is it?” he asked, with heartbreaking concern, very slightly edged with guilt. “Should I not...”

Willow shook her head. “It isn't... I don't mean that,” she tried to explain. “I could never mean that. I love you Xander. I want to make love to you. Always. It's just...” the words came tumbling out of her, amidst a torrent of tears, and if they were not entirely original, they were, nonetheless, entirely her own. Because she meant them, oh so very much! “It just seems sad,” she said. “I've love you like no one else for as long as I can remember. Since I was five years old, you've been the most important person in my life. And if I didn't know anything else...” her voice broke with emotion, “I _knew_ the first time should have been with you!”

“Oh Wil,” Xander moaned against her hair, holding her tighter than ever. “I know that. Of course, I know that. And that's why I'm so glad it was! No matter what either of us has done since, and no matter what happens after tonight, I'm so glad the first time for both of us was together!” And suddenly, Willow remembered! More than remembered, she lived it! She was awash in a sea of living memories, of things that had actually happened, though it had been as if they had never happened until a moment ago, until Xander had actually said the words acknowledging that they had.

 _Sweaty, tired, filthy, apprehensive yet accomplished, feeling amazingly like someone who matters, Willow turns her last shovel of dirt over the Master's grave and stands with the others, all of them wiping sweat from their brows. Giles!_ Giles _is sweating! Maybe harder than either of the two teens, though all he has done is chant. Willow doesn't blame him. That was some intense chanting! It was chanting of Epic, heroic proportions. As he stands there, his damp robe clinging to his body, it occurs to Willow that he is still, by many quite rational measures, a young man, still physically solid. Not at all past his prime. For the first time, she notices how sad it is that he is all alone, and probably as a matter of necessity, of duty, rather than by chance or choice. It is something she will feel, will notice, more deeply upon reflection, looking back._

_But it is Xander who most strongly catches and holds Willow's attention in this moment. Xander, like Willow, is impressed with himself, excited, giddy to have done what they have done and to be done doing it, to have gotten past the part where everything poised to go right can still go wrong. He snakes an arm around Willow's middle and pulls her tight against him into a sort of backwards bears hug. He squeezes her. It is happy triumphant squeezing that is very best friendly but subtly something more. Something to do with heat and sweat and the sizzle and pop of electricity set free. Something to do with satisfaction that celebrates by desiring to be more satisfied. She feels it too, the rush of lust that comes from victory in battle, infused with all the glowy happiness of love and peace and safety._

_For Giles sake, they mention only that Xander's parents know he is at Willow's for the night. Nothing is said of the fact that her parents are not home and know nothing. On these terms, he is happy to drop them off. 'Right. Wasn't here. Didn't see it. Couldn't have stopped you.' And he couldn't. Nothing could. The door clicks shut, and already they are kissing. His hands are tangled in her hair and she is pulling off his shirt. He runs his filthy, eager hands up the front of her body, under her shirt, rough against bare skin, turning sweat to grime._

_His fingers force their way into her bra cups from the bottom, pushing them up so that the too tight elastic is biting into the flesh around the tops of her breast as they spill into his grasping, kneading, needy hands. It hurts, pinches, just a little, certainly not enough to say anything that will make him take his hands off of her breasts. She wishes it would hurt just a tiny bit more, in fact, more searing, like a hot poker than nettling like a mosquito bite. But it doesn't matter. At this moment, it just doesn't matter. His hands may grope like a boys, but they are man's hands and her woman's body responds to them. He smells like a man. A man who works hard, faces danger and sweats._

_Willow reaches behind her own back and unhooks her bra. Clothing is flying from their bodies now, in every direction. Stripped to two contrasting styles of plain white underpants, they crash and roll onto the couch, half by plan and half by love-drunk backwards stumbling. Each of them in turn is pinned and crushed and scraped and abraded against the the burlap-like upholstery that is made for sitting up attentively, fully dressed, listening to Sheila lecture. The rolling finishes, with Xander on top, Willow pinned beneath him, bearing the full, crushing weight of his body. His hands hold her wrists tight against the scratchy cushions as his mouth plunges to hers in a hungry, demanding kiss._

_All of their kisses are fierce, carnivorous, like two big cats trying to devour each other, headfirst. Xander takes his hands from Willow's wrists and grasps both of her breasts again, pulling them to him, pinching her nipples, rolling and twisting, them between his thumbs and forefingers. His stubbled chin scrapes her face like sandpaper as they bite at each other's throats and her long nails score his back, both of them moaning with the intensity of slight pains that are also great pleasures. Somehow, she has always known they would be. She has always known that this will get a little rough, because their passion (when he finally stops denying that that is what it is) is just that strong. She has always know that she will like it this way, and so will he. And she does. And he does. And they do._

_Xander bites Willow's lip, drawing blood, as he tears her panties from her body. At the same moment, she is tugging at the waistband of his briefs, pulling them down just enough to get her hands on his cock, squeezing it appreciatively as she opens her legs wide, one foot on the floor and the other knee pushed up against the backrest of the couch. She begs him to thrust his beautiful, man-sized dick inside her. For an agony of seconds, he goes on teasing and tormenting her flesh with gentle bites and rough caresses, as if he cannot hear her pleading. Then suddenly, without warning, he plunges in, hard and fast, making her catch her breath and bite down on his shoulder to share the intensity of this sensation with him._

_Not every virgin bleeds, but Willow does. She is ripped and torn. It hurts just enough, and his ceaseless, punishing strokes keep it hurting just enough. The rope-burning friction of that medieval torture sofa from hell, does it's part to keep things suitably intense. She writhes in ecstasy beneath her brutal lover, riding him to her shuddering climax, clinging to him as he tumbles after her into the glorious abyss of sexual release._

_In the aftermath of passion, they snuggle and curl together for warmth, like two kittens in a basket. In the morning they bathe separately and dress in baggy cotton shorts and T-shirts. They eat Pop Tarts and watch cartoons and talk of other things. Because a man's or woman's body does not a grownup make. They don't want the responsibility. They aren't ready for their relationship to change. Somehow they both know that, both understand, and are both okay._

“But I think we are now,” Willow said, and somehow, Xander knew exactly what she meant.

“God I love you,Willow!” he breathed against her hot skin. Then he stood before her, a feast for her hungry eyes, as he pealed the layers of clothing from his body. Layers of formality, of distance. From black tie to naked savage. From gentleman caller to primeval lover. From Ritz Hotel to Eden.

Weak as she was from loss of blood, Willow lay before him, arms and legs stretched wide, open and passive as Earth waiting to be plowed. And as eager, as inviting, as specially created for that purpose. “I'm not going to use any condoms,” Xander told her. It was not an apology, and certainly not a question.

Willow nodded. Tears once again shimmered in her eyes. This time, they were tears of gratitude. He understood, he finally understood. Finally got it. Finally wanted it. Finally agreed. That there were two things wrong with barrier contraception, the barrier and the contraception. When neither came between them, at last he would be hers. They would be more than lovers, they would be mates, joined in the sight of God, not for a moment, but always.

Slowly, Xander walked back to the bed, covering the short distance at an agonizingly languid pace. His hard cock went before him, like the flaming sword of an Angel of the Lord, guarding the gates of paradise. Unable to restrain herself in the face of such beauty, Willow leaned up as he knelt onto the bed and grasped his penis firmly in one hand while cradling his balls in the other. She kissed the head of his dick, then flicked the tiny opening at it's tip with her tongue before running it all along the mushroom cap of the glans.

Xander pulled back from her, and in her weakened state, all she could do was whine in protest. “I don't want a blow job,” he laughed gently. “I want to fuck the woman I love.” It was really true. He wanted to have real, straight, honest, actual sex. The cosmic opposite of Russian Roulette. To roll all the dice for all the marbles. To invite life into the universe.

“Oh, God, yes!” Willow moaned as he lowered himself on top of her. Her nipples and her clitoris sat up and whimpered like love-starved puppies, begging for his touch. He rewarded each of them with a gentle kiss and a brief caress of his hand, sending such shivers through Willow's entire body that by the time (mere seconds later) that he thrust his cock inside her, she was already shuddering with the first spasms of her impending orgasm. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding on for dear life as he stroked hard and fast into her coming pussy. Her tension had hardly been released, amid her loud, unrestrained cries of ecstasy, when it began rapidly building again to a second release that coincided with his own.

Willow's spasming muscles pulled hot and cold semen through her cervix, into her uterus, reminding her that Xander was not the only lover she had invited in tonight. Somehow, even though she knew it should not have been, that it couldn't be, that fact was 100% alright. Xander (perfect, beautiful Xander) knew and understood. He did not begrudge her her past pleasure in Angel's embrace, even though that past had happened less than an hour ago. He loved her, _understood_ her, that much. And he was a man, at last, all jealousy, all immaturity, cast aside.

“Great Googly Moogly!” Xander cried out, rolling off of Willow to lay beside her, “I totally forgot. Giles sent me to tell you to come to the library. Buffy and Cordelia never made it to the dance. He thinks they may be in serious trouble.”

 


	3. It's Fucking Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two ways magic can make people do things they 'don't want to do'. Sex can be the effect caused by magic, or the price of casting it, for other worthy purposes. Of course... these are also the ways in which magic can 'make' people do things they DO want to do. Let's explore that, shall we?

“What exactly is your definition of 'hurry'?” Willow asked Xander, annoyed with both him and herself. And with the fact that for some unfathomable reason, nearly two minutes of pulling every single thing out of her closet and throwing it onto the bed had not turned up something so simple and should-have-been-plentiful as a pair of clean pants.

“I told you I forgot!” Xander barked back defensively. “I don't know, it's like I walked in here and all of a sudden my mind went blank and the the whole... Angel thing...” he averted his eyes on the excuse of adjusting his cummerbund, cufflinks, and other fine details on his recently redonned tux.

Willow felt huge, panicky guilt. Guilt that had to do with spells and consent and boundaries and all that... And with screwing things up more generally. Unwilling to waste any more time or to be the cause of any more suffering (not to mention death and fates worse) she grabbed the dress from the back of the closet door and pulled it on, taking less than five seconds to decide that just this once, under the circumstances, it would be okay to wear white socks and sneakers with it.

“Your folks left as I was coming in, by the way,” Xander told her, as they hurried down the stairs and out into the night. “They said not to wait up. But your mom gave me her car keys just in case we needed to go anywhere,” he added, sounding not the least bit puzzled or surprised, holding said keys up and rattling them in mild triumph. Although Willow was quietly terrified that Angel would be waiting outside for them, Xander seemed unconcerned, and sure enough, they made it to the car without incident. _Because that's not what this story is about_ , she thought crazily, giddily.

Within five uneventful minutes of Xander's tense, fast but surprisingly careful driving, they arrived at school and ran straight to the library. Where they found Giles naked, tied to a chair and groaning deeply around a tightly tied handkerchief gag. Because he was being deepthroated by an incredibly trashy looking bleach-blond female vampire. Who was also naked except for her pink feather boa. And being penetrated from behind by one of the Gorch brothers from Texas. The one who hadn't been eaten up by the Bezoar, obviously.

For a moment, Willow wasn't sure if they should interrupt them. In theory, it seemed self evident that if Giles was bound and gagged and vampires were performing sexual acts on him, it was certainly non-consensual. But the sounds Giles was making, the way his eyes were rolled back in his head, the _rhythm_ of his straining against his bonds, as if he were trying not so much to escape as to thrust, suggested otherwise.

Xander solved Willow's dilemma by handing her a stake, pointing from her to the girl vamp with his own stake, then counting silently down from three with his fingers. As one, Willow and Xander drove their stakes into the hearts of their respective targets. They might not have had the strength for such deep penetration through solid flesh and bone, but for the fact that both vampires picked that exact moment to arch themselves violently backward, overcome by the moment of orgasm, thereby effectively impaling themselves. As his captors exploded into two puffs of dust, Giles raised his head. His chin bobbed slightly as he looked from his young rescuers to his suddenly exposed penis (still standing hopefully at attention) and back again. The look in his eyes was startled, and unless Willow was mistaken, also rather deeply annoyed. Maybe even disappointed.

Willow sneaked a look at Xander, trying to decide how to react. She caught him in the act of checking out Giles's package. Well, and no wonder! His cock was huge and very red verging on slightly purple. It must have been at least a foot long and easily two inches in diameter. It looked like a giant, independently animated kielbasa. His scrotum was also large and hanging comfortably loose, weighted down with testicles the size of avocados. Embarrassed, Xander tugged Giles's gag loos and threw the wet handkerchief across his 'lap'. Even as his member settled down to something a lot more like parade rest, it was only mostly covered. Just enough so that everyone could politely pretend they couldn't see it, though Willow couldn't help sneaking an occasional look.

Giles cleared his throat as Xander went round to the back of the chair and started tugging loose the ropes that held him. “Well... I... erm... I must say!” he managed to stammer. “You two certainly have... erm _exceptional_ timing. Another moment and she'd have made m—erm made a meal out of me, I'm sure. Which would have been most—most—um, Willow, would you hand me my...” With his one recently freed hand, Giles indicated a small pile of assorted underwear several feet in front of the chair.

“What?” asked Willow startled, “Oh, yeah. Okay.” She quickly sifted through the pile. It consisted of one black, padded push-up bra; one pair of warn, stretched, stained, used-to-be-tidy whities that just (please God!) _had_ to belong to Gorch; and what looked to be two pairs of bright red panties. Willow gave Giles an uncomfortable, questioning look, trying to make the math add up. “Oh, Honestly!” he admonished her, rubbing both of his now unbound wrists, “They're just bikini briefs! D'you want me to get up and get them myself?”

Willow stared at him for a moment, too... she was going to go with 'stunned' even to be relieved. “Well... No!” she answered finally, grateful that the 'correct' answer had occurred to her without too much of a delay. It took her another moment to have the presence of mind to at last pick up the two red undergarments and to hand the (slightly) more masculinely styled pair to Giles. By an incredible act of willpower, she managed to turn her back politely, just as Xander finished freeing Giles from his chair at last. She would give him his privacy, damn it. She would not look to see how partial his partial erection still was as he began getting dressed. She would not wonder if it could be made to be partial specifically to her. Well... of course she would wonder. She couldn't help wondering... but—

Suddenly what felt like a moderately strong earthquake shook the library. Willow was thrown backwards into Giles and Giles into Xander. They all landed in a heap on the floor. Somehow, Willow ended up in the middle of the heap, with Xander's erection pressed against her bare buttocks through his suit and Giles's stiff, thin-red-cotton clad cock pressed against her wet snatch, a portion of the thick shaft, in fact, resting between her puffy, pink, abraded outer labia. Until all the shaking and falling had caused her skirt to ride up and sandwiched her between the two men, she hadn't even realized that she'd forgotten to put on her underpants in her hurry to get dressed and out of the house. It seemed like a strange mistake to make really, no matter how rushed things were.

They all lay there a moment, too stunned to move or to speak. Giles's penis throbbed against Willow's clitoris. Sexual energy crackled between them. Giles felt it as deeply as she did, that sense that his penis _belonged_ inside her. Even above and apart from the way his already impossibly hard shaft plumped and became impossibly harder against her warm, damp softness, she could tell by the look in his eyes how badly he wanted to fuck her. Suddenly, motion and friction were introduced into the equation. Willow was being rocked from side to side against Giles, causing his fat cock to roll slightly back and forth against her clitoris, her inner labia and her vaginal opening... which felt oh so very open! He had already given her a pleasantly shocked look, clearly indicating his belief that she was deliberately stimulating him, when they both realized that the motion of their most intimate parts against one another was actually being caused by Xander's attempts to free himself from beneath them.

Unless Willow was mistaken (and it was certainly hard to think with Xander's dick switching back and forth against her ass as he rolled his hips from side to side and pushed forward trying to rise, even as Giles's rubbed against her aforementioned sexual organs ever so slightly through his now very damp bikini briefs) the Watcher's look of mingled relief and self-censure also contained a healthy dose of disappointment. Giles wished that Willow was trying on purpose to get sexual with him at least almost as much as he was glad she wasn't! That thought made her... well it couldn't make her any wetter because she was already oh so very wet! But it sent thrills of lust and happiness plinking between her heart and her 'heart'.

Willow guessed she ought to feel guilty, but for once she sort of didn't. “Roll off,” she told Giles, “let Xander up.” And on that very thin pretext, she pushed him sideways onto his back and rolled on top of him, pinning him beneath her, briefly grinding her pubis against his erection. Wile she was grinding, she stared frankly into his eyes, then grinned slyly. He made his speechless with shock face again, and Willow gave him a bold wink (coloring, but not too deeply) as she stood and smoothed her skirt back into place.

“Xander,” Giles said firmly, getting to his feet at the same moment as Xander did, “Go to the Gymnasium and find Faith and Oz. Tell them that Buffy and Cordelia are trapped in a cabin in Millers Woods holding off several human, demon and vampire attackers who are hunting them for sport. The three of you are to make your way there immediately and render assistance. Oz knows the spot well enough that he should be able to find it without any further direction. Willow and I will stay here and cast a luck spell which should aid you all in battle. The whole business should take us about 20-40 minutes, during which each of you will come into a state of fortunaity in his or her own time, so try not to press your luck too far too soon.”

“Roger, Wilco,” Xander replied in a grave tone that was slightly at odds with his sloppy mock salute. As quickly as he exited, Giles locked the library doors behind him.

“Now then,” Giles said in his most serious, Watcherly tone, turning to Willow, who was womanfully resisting the urge to finger herself under her skirt. “We'd best get to it. We've got a lot of ground to cover very quickly if we are going to have enough sex for this spell to adhere to all our cohorts in time to do them some good.” It was Willow's turn for the stunned blinking. Even given the particular type of very strange night that she was having, she was almost sure she must have misheard, or at least misinterpreted what he'd said. Though it seemed clearly stated in the extreme. “I've already done the chanting,” he explained, as he walked to her, his erection still covered in red cotton but by no means hidden, “I almost had the charm cast upon Buffy, which was all I'd have been able to manage using those two undead, redneck morons as my unwitting accomplices. But between the two of us I think we should reasonably be able to manage five at once.”

“Now then,” he said, his voice changing a little, growing huskier, less pedantic, as he reached Willow at last and thrust both of his hands under her skirt, gripping her bare buttocks and pulling her hard against his groin, “all we have to do is to complete five distinct sexual acts to orgasm. However, we shall have to arrange them in a very particular order,” he warned, taking one hand from her ass to point (and very nearly wag!) the stern finger of his teacherly authority at her.

“Because it's an ancient ritual rich with specific symbolism?” Willow guessed.

“No—” Giles corrected her, interrupting himself with one fierce passionate, soul deep kiss of her mouth, “—because I almost certainly have a longer refractory period than you do and some acts are more sexual to one sex than the other.” And without further exposition, Giles pushed Willow down onto the table top and climbed on top of her, pulling her dress over her head as he went. Needing no more encouragement than that, Willow grabbed a hold of his massive cock at last, jerking it up and out of his bikini briefs as she slid those down to his knees with her feet.

'A flexible thing she is too,' Giles thought happily, a low chuckle rumbling in the back of his throat. He smiled half-ironically as Willow frantically spread her cunt open with her fingers and pulled his cock-head to the opening, meaning to guide him inside. 'If only,' he thought, but what he said (around a mouthful of her breast) was, “That's not first.” He rolled with her so that she was on top of him, then wordlessly encouraged her (by gently handling her towards that direction of movement) to spin around atop him until she was squatting above his face and leaning down to look at his crotch. “We should be able to complete the first and second acts at more or less the same time,” he told her, then you will have to sing the lead for the next two before my big show stopping number, alright?” Willow nodded an made vaguely affirmative grunting noises. Clearly it was more than alright.

“One last thing,” Giles groaned instructively as Willow stretched her lips around the head of his penis and took a good three or four inches of him into her mouth. “While I'm bringing you to orgasm, you must imagine yourself sexually gratifying Cordelia. Do you think you can do that?” Willow didn't answer in so many words, of course, but her head bobbed in the enthusiastic affirmative. Willow could not suck his gargantuan organ into her throat, of course. Unlike the habitually late Mrs. Gorch, she still possessed both a healthy gag reflex and a genuine need to breathe. But somehow, without being told, she knew that the best way to handle it was to handle it, at least to the extent that it exceeded her ability to tongue it. Clever girl!

Satisfied, that he had her full and capable cooperation, Giles grabbed Willow by the hips and pulled her hot, dripping pussy down over his mouth, exploring her with his lips, teeth and tongue. As he savored the taste of her (the salt-acid tang of a recently fucked woman) he found himself thinking of Xander's pleasure rather than of Buffy's as he had intended. His suddenly certain (though only circumstantially supported) conviction that his mouth was being flooded with the boy's semen led Giles to momentarily imagine the ecstasy he could have granted Xander by laving his whole body with his tongue. (How shocked the boy would have been to learn how little being attracted to someone had to do with being made to feel good!) He only thought about it for a moment. But in that moment, magic was being done.

Willow was having a little bit of trouble. Never mind the fact that her new best friend Panic was jumping up and down, pointing and excitedly shouting, 'Hey, Giles had his penis in your mouth!' It was the mechanics of the whole thing that were problematic. This was the thing no one every really said about incredibly huge penises, that they didn't really fit very well into incredibly small spaces. And although Willow had never really measured or compared, Panic was now eagerly pointing out that some of the spaces he was going to want to invade with his huge penis could be an even tighter fit. Willow drew her Panic to her. Silencing her with a deep, wet, sloppy metaphorical kiss, she used the moment of distraction to back Panic into one of the many generously sized closets in her head, shoved her in and slammed the door. Sure, there was still a little banging and screaming, but it was suitably muffled. Willow didn't have time right now to panic about what might happen next. She had a particularly challenging cock to suck off and friends who might die if she didn't get the job done ASAP.

The mechanical difficulties were basically twofold. One: although Willow had managed to get Angel's happily medium-sized dick all the way into her mouth and (with only an occasional gaggy feeling that could be easily ignored in the midst of excitement, pleasure and panic) a little ways down her throat when a little throat was needed to account for the not-really-six-inches-deepness of her oral cavity; she could barely get the huge head of Giles's giant sausage all the way to the back of her mouth where it brushed against the area where her throat almost started. And when she did that, it filled her mouth so full that she couldn't move her tongue. Even moving her lips, to slide him to and fro within her mouth was slightly painful and (she felt sure) clumsily done. Plus her teeth seemed to be in the way of everything. Within a minute or two of first gamely trying to take him in as far as possible, she had given up and resorted to licking and sucking only the head of his penis while rubbing and stroking the shaft with her hands. She hoped he wasn't too disappointed. She tried to make it up to him by actively liking and tracing her tongue over every part of him that she could actually reach, and by occasionally caressing his big hairy sac full of testicles.

Second on the list of technical difficulties, Willow was having enough trouble concentrating on the sexual task itself without having to try to remember what she was supposed to be thinking about to make the magic part work. She'd be thinking (if thinking was even the word for it!) about how amazingly wet and hot and ecstatic her cunt felt and/or how to make sure to keep doing something different to try to surprise and stimulate Giles without quitting or forgetting things she had done so far that seemed to work, when all of a sudden, she'd remember Cordelia. And she'd try, dutifully, to _keep_ thinking of Cordelia. For a few seconds, for half a minute at a time even, it would work. She'd imagine that Cordelia, instead of Giles, was lying below her, legs splayed before her face. She'd pretend it was Cordelia's mouth she was feeling on her broiling labia and throbbing clitoris.

But then Willow would think about what it would really be like to have sex with Cordelia. Which would be pretty much the same as what it was like to do anything with Cordelia. Whatever she did wouldn't be good enough. Nothing would go right from the moment they first exposed themselves to each other, and Cordelia would be sure to point out how it was all Willow's fault. Cordelia would be neatly shaved and gaggingly perfumed and deodorized. She would be scathingly sarcastic about the fact that Willow wasn't. She'd say something like, “If you think I'm getting my two-hundred dollar designer lipstick anywhere near your scissor trimmed, ivory soap snatch, you're crazier than Buffy Summers!”

… And then Willow would find herself thinking of Buffy. Buffy, lying on the library table, her pale thighs spread to reveal the passion pink flower of her vagina and the pearl-hard nub of her clitoris in it's little red riding hood. It would be bigger than Willow's maybe, not huge like a thumb, but round like the tip of her pinky. Like some she had seen on the internet. (Nothing she had actually search for! … much.) It would sit up erect. It would be something she could get her lips around and suck and lick and roll against her tongue. Almost but not quite entirely unlike the way she was licking and slurping the huge, pulsing head of Giles's massive, massive cock. And in return Buffy would make her feel... exactly what she was feeling now! Yes! Yes! Exactly that!

“Oh! Buffy!” Willow cried out, fact and fantasy tangled together in the ecstatic embrace of orgasm. “Oh! Buffy! Buffy, Yes!” At that moment, Giles's flesh between her lips grew even more taunt and she tasted the salt of his semen streaming from it. Suddenly, with shocking speed and strength, he flung her off of him and onto her back with such force that she was afraid the table would break. Equally without warning, in mid-orgasm, as streaming gave way to spurting, he thrust the head and several inches of his mammoth penis into her mercifully lubricated twat.

Still high on lust and emboldened by the act of coming, Willow raised her knees to waist level, hooked her feet behind Giles's knees, dug her hands into the flesh of his ass and pulled him more fully into her. The fit was in deed oh so very tight. _Snug_ , in the nicest possible way, and the naughtiest. The girth of him stretched and pulled at every inch of her superheated channel even as she spasmed delightfully around him. But it fit! Yes! It definitely did fit! And it was fitting that it did!

Willow and Giles held that fitted, fitting pose for a long moment, both panting hard. Then they collapsed together in their relief and release. And when they collapsed, so did the table. The loud, crashing, sound (of splitting wood flying briefly through space and landing hard against other sturdy products of construction) continued for several seconds after their two bodies had come to rest, still entangled, but no longer joined, among the rubble of the table. Panic broke from her closet with a loud bang-crack! Which was also the sound made by the crumpling double doors of the library as Buffy kicked them in and sprang into the room.

 


	4. It IS a Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Slayerfest over and everyone safe, Buffy has her own plans for the rest of Willow's evening. But as Willow begins to absorb the truth of how extraordinary Buffy really is and the depth of her feelings for her 'best friend' she wonders, whose fantasy are they really living? And how real could it really be?

“Oh. My. God.” Cordelia declared, walking into the room behind Buffy, who was still standing stock still, looking horrified and confused.

“...I... heard my name?” Buffy explained uncertainly, almost apologetically. “I thought...” She let the sentence trail off and shook her head some more. She was still confused, perhaps willfully so.

Giles cleared his throat, sounding embarrassed, but quickly covering with a plausible tone of authority. “Yes, well,” he explained, “that would have been part of the... the erm... spell, you see. After I got your message.... Willow and I were just doing some magic. To protect you. I'm afraid it... the casting got rather... intense.” By the time he had disentangled himself and stood up, Giles was wearing his little red briefs again, having pulled them up from around his knees as unobtrusively as he could while Buffy's and Cordelia's views of the situation were, Willow hoped, at least partially obscured by her body and the bits of broken table. At any rate, it was enough for everyone to at least pretend they weren't entirely sure what had been involved in this 'rather intense' casting.

Fortunately, both Buffy and Cordelia seemed inclined to pretend, even when (with an aplomb that Willow was sure he must be faking) Giles leaned down and casually handed her her dress without a break in his calm explanation of the fact that Buffy, Cordelia and Xander were now protected by the ability to expect exceptionally fortunate outcomes to any events evolving chance in any significant way. He managed to explain all this thoroughly enough that Willow now understood the necessity of his switching positions in mid orgasm and the fact that it was he who had protected both Cordelia and Xander while her every though had been focused on Buffy. Yet, he also explained it vaguely, generally enough so as not to give Buffy or Cordelia and additional difficulty in pretending they had not just seen Willow and Giles lying stark naked among the rubble of the table they had clearly broken by having sex on it. Giles was so good at explaining things, Willow though in a helplessly glowy-gushy way. It made her feel irrationally proud to have just had sex with him.

'Oh my God!' Panic screamed, 'You just had sex with Giles! Now you're probably going to get pregnant! And then he'll probably get fired or deported or killed or something! Or he'll hate you when he finds out this is all just a spell!' But no, Willow assured herself, steadying, feeling better now that she was fully dressed and Giles was getting more fully dressed by the second. It was okay. It was all okay. Because tonight, somehow, everything was okay. It didn't even matter. It was all just a spell. Like a dream, only she got to have it all really happen. Anyway, this was no time to be thinking about that. Because now Buffy was doing her own explaining. She was already in mid explanation, in fact.

“...So the big explosion was caused by the two Germans accidentally aiming their grenade launchers at each other after the transmitters from our corsages just _happened_ to end up stuck to them,” she was saying, in her half-smug way. “And then, like, not even five seconds before we busted in here, the vamp that's actually running the game (this skinny vamp that looks like he's auditioning to play Sammy Davis Jr.?) just shows up out of nowhere and, like, throws himself onto Cordelia's spatula and dies. By my count, that makes all of them dead except the boss of the Germans, who's probably halfway to Vegas with the prize money that Sammy's not coming back for, if I had to guess.”

“Oh!” Cordelia exclaimed, in a tone of sudden realization. “Maybe the luck spell explains how we found the only spatula in the whole world with a handle made completely out of wood instead of plastic!” Giles brow furrowed. As far as he knew, that spell should not have had any retroactive effect, not even a few minutes worth. But then, the effects of magical forces could always vary. “You know, the weird thing?” Cordelia mused, still contemplating her own spatula, “It even looks like plastic.”

“Yes, well...” Giles said, smoothing the whole thing over by putting the inconsistencies out of his mind, “Now that we know you girls are safe, we must go and tell Xander and the others that they needn't go looking for you.”

“You go,” Buffy told Cordelia, “You'll want to be there to get crowned anyway. With any luck,” she added with an amused little smile, “you should be able to catch them before they leave the gym.”

“You aren't coming?” Cordelia asked, puzzled.

Buffy shook her head. “You go on,” she said. “It seems like one skill both a warrior and a prom princess ought to have is to know when she's been beat fair and square by a worthy opponent and to be gracious about it. I'd come watch even, but like you pointed out, I have bet—other things to do. Giles,” Buffy added, as if it were an afterthought. "Go with her. If by some chance the guys have left already, I don't want Cordy to have to leave and miss getting crowned to chase them down.”

Willow's heart pounded. She had a fluttery, half nauseous feeling like the butterfly population was on the rise again. She _saw_ the look in Buffy's eyes. It was a look that said sending Giles away was no afterthought. It was a plan. When Buffy concluded with, “I'll say here and help Willow clean up,” the truth of what she meant, what she wanted, what she _needed_ , rang out so clearly that Willow was shocked by Giles' and Cordelia's seeming not to notice. Sure enough, the two of them had barely disappeared from view when Buffy turned to Willow with lust and hunger in her eyes and said, “Boy! I thought they'd never leave!”

“Did you... want to talk about something?” Willow asked nervously, almost guiltily.

“Talk?” Buffy asked, “Do we _really_ have to talk?” Her voice was playful, wanton, knowing. The roll of her hips, the bounce of her breasts, the swaying of her hair as she flowed forwards, approaching Willow like a wave coming to shore, was... powerful, sexual, inevitable. “Why can't we just seize the moment?” she offered, seeming to relish the thought, to savor every word.

Why not? What a good question. Willow's heart quickened still further with desire, and yet she found herself taking a step back, laughing nervously, smiling a shy smile. Willow was honestly not sure what she was being so suddenly shy about. Okay, true, she was about to make love to a girl for the first time ever, and that girl was Buffy who was special and deserved perfect, which Willow was not. But it was all still just the same spell as everything else had been. Tomorrow, Willow reminded herself (or maybe instructed herself) firmly, they would all wake up and none of them would know that any of this—the spells, the magic, the amazing night of sex—had ever happened at all. This moment, this situation, was such a gift: to be here now with Buffy and to know that nothing in her life would be broken or complicated or changed because of it. Willow thought of how perfectly unchanged, how continuingly childlike, her relationship with Xander had been since the night, well over a year ago now, that they had made love for the first time. She wanted that with Buffy oh so very much, to be that close to her, to share those intimate, secret moment, and yet to keep her friendship as it was, to lose nothing, to risk nothing by surrendering to passion.

There was no more time for thinking and deciding and worrying. Buffy's tide broke on Willow's shore, and all doubt and hesitation was washed away. Suddenly, they were kissing, both mouths plunging towards each other at the same moment as all four hands slid over the satin and velvet curves of two beautifully adorned female bodies. Buffy's lips were soft and plump, her kiss firm and eager and seeking. There was power in it, more than the power of sexual need.

There was in The Slayer's kiss a sense of lethal force restrained by an incredible act of will. The tongue that probed deep into Willow's mouth, writhing and dancing with her own, soft and loving as it was, was a mass of muscle animated by more that human energy. The forces it could exert were not bounded by the laws of physics. It's power was restrained not be the weakness of the flesh, but by love alone, passion set against passion in an eternal tension. The firm but gentle pressure of Buffy's hands on Willow's breasts as she cupped and kneaded them through the inconvenience of her dress, was so limited, so controlled that it could not give full vent to her desire, which escaped from her in low moans and shuddering sighs.

Reality washed over Willow in a way it never had before, the truth of this woman in her arms. She was vast and elemental, this superhuman, this exalted creature, this daughter of the night sky of whom no mortal was worthy. “Oh, Buffy! Buffy!” Willow breathed again and again against the ears and neck and gloriously bare shoulders of her own worshiped goddess, enrapture by the grace, the benevolence that granted her that privilege. And while she worshiped thus, her goddess blessed her with hot, gentle kisses. From her ear lobes, to her neck, along her collarbone, Buffy kissed her. Pulling open the front of her dress, not violently but effortlessly, as if it were a robe, made to open so, and continuing down and along the upper curves of her breasts, Buffy kissed her.

Overcome with passion, with need, with gratitude, Willow slid her hands down along the satin contours of Buffy's dress and up again, under her skirt, making electric contact with her bare flesh. Buffy's shoe's and stockings must have been somehow lost in the fighting and fleeing of Slayerfest. But, somehow, Willow knew that her lack of panties, just like the absence of her bra, was a deliberate choice. Buffy was predestined, prepared by fate and her own free will to make love tonight. She had only been laying in wait to seize her moment.

Willow ran her palms along the smoothness of thighs that parted slightly to let her pass between them. Buffy's mound, so perfectly hewn to be cupped by Willow's hand was trimmed but not shaved. Damp curls crowned her soft cleft, begging to be stroked, caressed, loved. Willow could not resist so warm an invitation. She ran her fingers along and over and between those beautifully full lips. She search among the curls until she found the firm, tiny button of Buffy's clit. Touching it, stroking it, seemed too much to dare, too much to presume; and yet, Willow did dare, did presume, and almost without hesitation. Tonight anything that could be desired could be dared, anything dreamed could be presumed.

Willow's boldness was rewarded. Buffy bit her lip to keep from screaming out. Her moans of ecstasy deepened, then gave way to whimpering. Desperately, Buffy pulled Willow's bra apart and sucked one breast then the other nearly whole into her mouth as she ground her pubis against Willow's hand. Willow's own cunt was so wet and hot and swollen and throbbing with desire that she thought she might pass out from that delicious torment if Buffy didn't touch it soon. But there were aspects to Willow's desire that consumed her even more urgently.

“Can we lay down?” Willow whispered, almost begged, “I want to see you, spread open and beautiful for my eyes only!”

“Yes!” Buffy gasped, “Yes! I want you to see me!”

Buffy grasped Willow's bare breasts in her hands once more, squeezing and twisting her hard nipples to the point that the sensation was slightly, delightfully painful as their mouths met in the hungry kiss of lips that will soon be forced to spend unbearable moments apart. Moaning and whimpering with insatiable longing of her own, Willow grasped the red satin bodice of Buffy's pretty dress, ferociously tearing it apart to get at the perfect breasts beneath.

...Except that the dress didn't rip. Because Willow wasn't that strong. Breaking from Willow's kiss, a gentle smile on her lips, Buffy stepped back, unzipped her dress and let to fall to the floor. With a merry little laugh, she stepped out of it. “Force isn't the point,” she explained, lifting Willow's chin, which had dropped slightly with embarrassment, disappointment in herself. “You never have to use force with me,” Buffy insisted with quiet ardor. “I love you, Willow. That is all the power you will ever need.” And for now, for tonight, Willow let that be the truth.

Willow shrugged out of the remains of her own dress and the two of them stood naked before one another, both smiling with happy desire, neither shy nor guilty now. Buffy was the sun, crowned in gold and glowing from within. Willow circled her, seeing her from every angle—her toned, round, perky ass; her firm high breasts, more than half covered in broad, dusky pink areolas, crowned by round, hard, happily upturned nipples—feeling the pull of her gravity. The look in Buffy's eyes was almost enough to convince Willow that she too must be beautiful, might even be worthy. Her skin must be like milk or alabaster rather than pasty and dull. Her hair and her eyes must shine like rubies and emeralds after all. Why else would Buffy be so pleased with her?

Buffy sat down on the low, carpeted steps that led to the stacks. Tossing her golden hair, she leaned back, propping herself on her back-stretched hands and spread her legs wide. The way her breasts fell slightly to either side, exposing a strip of smooth flesh between that curved down and became the arch of her slightly concave belly, gave her entire body a look of welcoming openness. But the central delight of it all, the piece de beyond-all-resistance, was the passion pink orchid at the center of the bouquet. Or... well... okay, actually it was her vulva, but it sounded more romantic the other way. And Willow was feeling terribly romantic. In fact, she never had been so in love. With a girl! Of course a girl! Why not a girl! Why hadn't she seen this before! It made such perfect terrible sense. It was a revelation. Not the last the night would hold, she knew.

Willow fell to her knees to be closer to Buffy's beautiful cunt, the better to worship her. She slid her pale finger upwards along soft, smooth thighs that were not pale but golden, beautifully tanned. Buffy's clit was not the round, pink pearl of her imagination, but a red, elliptical shape like a rough sketch of a half opened eye or the exposed edge of a cylinder, unevenly discovered, with the buried ends tapering into the tan-pink surrounding flesh. It wasn't hooded either, in the same way Willow's was, with inner labia joining to something very like a foreskin, pulling that tiny sheaf of fleshiness forward and curtaining down along the sides of the aforementioned (much rounder) nub and down along the edges of her vagina. No, Buffy barely had the foreskin-like part at all or at least in her aroused state, it seemed to pull back of its own accord, retreating rather than advancing from the swollen head of her clitoris. The labia themselves, those luscious pink inner petals, began from a point below the edge of the clitoris so that it stood, not like the stamen inside the cupped center of a flower, but proud and alone at the head of her entrance, guarding her like that angel with the flaming sword who stood in the gate of paradise blocking the way back to innocence.

Willow bent closer, on her hands and knees now, her face between Buffy's thighs, breathing in the sent of her desire. Slowly, she reached out a tentative fingertip and gently stroked those beautiful inner lips, watching in wonder and fascination as Buffy's clit swelled and reddened still further and rounded just a little in response to her indirect touch. The lips themselves were invitingly moist, slippery even. Willow couldn't help sliding first one, then another finger inside as, at last, she bent to brush her lips against Buffy's clit. Buffy moaned and Willow moaned in response, aroused and gratified by her responsiveness. Buffy's clit really wasn't big enough to suck, but the way she gasped and writhed and bucked as Willow kissed and licked and nuzzled it, two eager finger still working inside her; Willow knew that what she was doing was more than good enough.

Good enough for Buffy, but it left Willow in an agony of longing. Finally, she reached down between her own thighs with her left hand and began stroking and rubbing and fingering herself. In moments, she felt close to coming again and the quality of Buffy's gasping and writhing said that she felt the same. Willow kept going, fingering them both in the same relentless rhythm, licking and kissing Buffy all the while. Buffy cried out first, but it was hard for Willow to say whether that was before of after the first shudders of her own orgasm had started. She kept going, on both of them, stretching out the high, not letting the relief of release set in until she had rung every last second of pleasure from the moment and they both lay, shaking on the carpet, dragging in ragged breathes of much needed air.

Willow's head had come to rest in Buffy's lap. Oh, the dangerous proximities that were concealed in that innocuous sounding word, 'lap'! After a moment, Willow opened her eyes to find Buffy staring down at her with wonder and love. Willow blushed, not from anything to do with sexy nakedness but from the profusion of Buffy's silent flattery. That look! As if she thought she were the lucky one! And then with a smile that was at least as much joyful as ironic and a sigh that was much more so, Willow relaxed into the realization. Buffy _was_ the lucky one. Her own spell had made it so. And so, if Willow was lying with her head in Buffy's lap, her whole body humming with the afterglow of their shared orgasm, then that must be the way Buffy wanted it, for real.

Willow laughed with sheer delight and love. “All this time I was dreaming of you,” she asked, still a little breathless, “were you dreaming of me too?”

Buffy laughed too, just as happily. “Yeah,” she said, taking both of Willow's hands where they lay against her own belly, their fingers becoming interlaced. She leaned down and kissed her lips, her blond hair spilling all around them. “I guess I was, actually. I just didn't know it was you I was dreaming of. I could never imagine anything as perfect as this.”

“I bet I could,” said a throaty, familiar voice looming above them, both amused and aroused from the sound of her, “better even.” They both looked up into the wide, lascivious grin of The Other Slayer.

“Hey, Faith,” Buffy said, almost managing casual, only slightly embarrassed, not even considering disentangling. Maybe because her bush wasn't naked to the world in this position. Of course, Willow wasn't moving either, and not just because she sort of loved the fact that hers was. No. She was transfixed. It was as if she were seeing Faith for the very first time.

Snow White! Willow suddenly thought, but knew better than to say. Lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony. Faith had walked straight out of a fairytale (or two) and Willow was flushed rose red with desire for her. So strong was this thread of fantasy, that it surprised Willow not at all when Faith said to Buffy, good naturedly enough, “Hey, yourself, Goldilocks. Is this a private tea party or does every princess get to play?”

 


	5. Getting a Little Grimm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy and Faith make Willow feel like a princess... in the wrong kind of Fairy Tale.

 “What am I, talking to myself?” Faith demanded, cracking the bullwhip she had found (too easily, as if she'd known exactly where to look) in some obscure cabinet in a corner of Giles' office that Willow hadn't ever noticed before. “I said, on your knees, Bitch!” Faith stood, thigh high leather boots planted wide apart, wearing nothing else. She cracked her whip again, impatiently, her other hand on her hip, fingers drumming. Silently, looking timid, chastened, Buffy complied. But Willow thought she glimpsed a glint of secret pleasure in the golden-haired Slayer's eyes, and even if she didn't glimpse it, she knew it was there. Because she wanted it to be, and tonight, that was enough.

“You've been stealing my scenes again, haven't you!” the fair-skinned Slayer accused. “Sneaking around in places you don't belong, eating other people's porridge, sleeping in everyone's beds.”

“I had to do it,” Buffy pleaded, casting a glance towards Willow. “She's as beautiful as a rose in bloom, no one could resist her.”

“Oh, so now you're moving in on my chick, too!” Faith retorted. “Come here Red.” Heart racing and leaping, with an uneven, giddily nervous joy, Willow got up from the carpeted steps on which she had been seated, falling into the roll of an audience, and stood at Faith's right hand, ready to be a part of the action after all. “Has this cunt been sleeping in your bed?” Faith demanded.

Willow grinned wickedly, defiantly. “Yeah,” she said, “and it was just right!” Suddenly, Faith reached up with her free hand and grabbed Willow's head, tangling pale fingers in her copper hair. Forcefully (yet with oh so much force still restrained!) she pulled the redhead's face to hers and caught her mouth in a hard, bruising, possessive kiss. It ended with Faith pulling away, shoving Willow slightly backwards.

“Alright!” Faith said to Buffy without taking her eyes off Willow. “I'll give you something to eat,” she declared, grabbing Buffy by the hair and forcing her face between her thighs. “And you'd better finish it all up, too.” And she did. In moments both girls were whimpering and groaning with pleasure. Soon Faith was arching her back and screaming with pleasure. Somewhere along the way, she lost her grip on the bullwhip. As her hips began to jerk and shutter and her knees threatened to buckle out from under her, Faith leaned slightly (then not so slightly) forward, her hands twisted in Buffy's hair. For a few minutes, Willow just stood and watched, fingering herself gently as she reveled in the beauty of the scene the two Slayers were acting out just for her. But tonight was not a night for watching. Tonight was a night for doing. This was her fairytale.

Taking up the whip, Willow waited for her moment. When Faith's hips ceased to jerk and her neck arched, her whole body going ridged as she cried out in climax, Willow lashed her across the back and buttocks, lightly the first couple of times, then several times, hard and fast, finally drawing blood. When the dark-haired Slayer was finally done coming, she whirled to face Willow, grinning, lips redder than ever, glistening with blood where she had bitten them, her ebony locks falling lank and sweat-damp around her luminous, moon-pale face. On the other side of Faith, partly blocked from Willow's view, Buffy was slowly getting to her feet, wobbling on shaky legs, looking spent but happy. “Way to go, Red!” Faith declared, sounding as though she might be offering a high five at any moment, “I knew you had it in you.”

Willow felt suddenly angry with Faith, who seemed not at all dominated by her. The raven-haired princess always seemed to be everyone's master-mistress, no matter who was holding the bullwhip. “On your knees, bitch!” Willow suddenly heard herself bark, her voice harsh and strange in her own ears. “You may be the original bed-hopping slut, and all lesser sluts may bow before you, but you still belong to me!”

“Yes, Ma'am!” Faith agreed eagerly, but when she got on her knees, she dropped her eyes. “Please,” she begged (somehow still bold, even as a beggar) “let me eat you just right. Just a mouthful at a time, until it's just enough!”

Willow grinned. “Very well,” she agreed, enjoying her ability to sound so cool when she felt so very hot, enjoying even more the fact that Faith was clearly not fooled at all, but willingly playing along, willingly being ruled by her at last. Buffy smiled too, as she walked over and sat down on the steps, legs wide apart, to finger herself as she watched. Willow grinned wider still, more than ready to put on a show for Buffy's eyes only.

Slowly, at first, almost reverently, then ever more fiercely as she was overcome by passion, Faith licked and nipped and kissed and laved and nuzzled and sucked and stroked the soft flesh of Willow's genitals with her whole face: lips, tongue, teeth, nose, even her eyes feasted. Somehow, she repeatedly managed to catch and hold Willow's clit between her lips for seconds at a time before it slipped from between them, mercilessly applying her tongue each and every time she managed to capture it. Within a couple of minutes, Willow was coming, her fifth? Sixth? 'who's counting anymore' orgasm of the night. But even then, Faith refused to let up. The pleasure was so intense that Willow felt her knees buckling. She grabbed Faith by the shoulders, to steady herself, and held on, fingernails digging into flesh, reflexively at first, then with more purpose as Faith responded, devouring her even more aggressively.

Willow heard gentle throaty laughter behind her and raised her eyes to see that Buffy was no longer watching from the steps, just about the same time she felt the blond Slayer's firm, gentle hands grip her ass, her warm breath sending out shivers of pleasure as she gently kissed Willow's asshole, then began to probe it with her tongue. It was a strange sensation. Strange, but not unpleasant. The delicate rippling of nerve ending that had never imagined such intimate contact from another living person was a relieving counterpoint to Faith's relentless onslaught of intense oral pleasuring of her cunt. Besides, there was the thrill of knowing that both women were (sometimes at the very same moment) thrusting their tongues, thrusting themselves, inside her body... the very idea of it was so delicious, so arousing, that it made Willow long to be doubly penetrated in a much more traditional sense. Triply even.

Yes, definitely triply, Willow decided, as she came yet again, imagining taking Oz in her mouth, Xander in her backside and Giles (for a much longer and more satisfying ride) inside her cunt. And suddenly, Willow found herself giggling. She was past her ability to come anymore. She was beyond sated. Sensing her complete and absolute doneness, her two lovers disengaged. She gladly shared with them the joke, until they were all rolling on the floor, howling with laughter. “I just couldn't stop imagining,” she explained, “what a hassle it would be to try to position all four people for that. Who's squishing who's face? And where do you put all the arms and legs?”

“Like stacking a house of cards,” Buffy agreed, “until everyone falls down in a big pile.”

“Which could also be fun,” Faith pointed out. Everyone died laughing again. At last, the laughter died away and the three girls were left lying on the floor in happy, affectionate silence.

“Alright,” Buffy said finally, “we'd better get our clothes on before the rest of the gang get's back.”

“Oh No!” Willow moaned in sudden, miserable realization. “Buffy you ripped my dress off. I don't have anything to put back on.

“Wow, B,” Faith said, already half dressed herself, sounding very impressed. “I didn't know you could get that hot for pussy. All this time, you've had me fooled. I might have to punish you for that later.”

“Enough with the punishment thing,” Buffy said, mildly annoyed, shrugging back into her filthy but largely intact dress. “And I'm not 'fooling' anyone. Willow's special, that's all. You don't have to be gay to want to please the most wonderful girl in the world. I just... love her, that's all.” Buffy's voice was so happy-glowy towards the end of that that it should have filled Willow's heart with warmth and joy. Instead it inspired in her a sort of cold, slow-seeping uneasiness. As absurd as Buffy's words were, there was something eerily familiar about them. Something that Willow did not want to put her finger on. Worse still, Faith nodded knowingly. As if what Buffy had said made perfect sense.

“None of this changes the fact that I have nothing to wear,” Willow whined, somewhere between testy and forlorn.

“Relax, Wil, “ Buffy assured her, helping her to her feet with a gentle smile. “I've got clean gym clothes in my locker.” She went to get them.

“She's really special, isn't she?” Faith said seriously, as she waited on the steps with Willow for Buffy's return. “You love her, don't you.”

“Yeah,” Willow admitted, wonderingly, “I really do. Truly.”

“Then she's a lucky girl,” Faith concluded soberly. “And so are you. Life sucks a lot less when you actually know what you want when you're getting it. Someone like me... my life's petty much just going to suck. You know, because of fate or karma or whatever. The closest I'm ever going to get to bliss is the kind of kinky fun that involves seven midgets, a corset and an apple pie. But you two, you might actually have a chance at happily ever after.” Faith smiled wanly. “It blows chunks,” she declared only a little ironically, “but only because I'm not you. You, both of you, you've got your hearts right out there where people can actually touch them, not... locked up in a little box. Just once... I'd die to know what that's like.”

Willow cast her eyes down and away. True Love. Every after. Lucky. Right. None of this would matter tomorrow. No one would ever remember it. Like it never happened. How incredibly sad, Willow thought. “I like your heart-in-a-box,” she said, not because it was true, but because she hoped it might be comforting. Because Faith's suddenly transparent misery, on top of everything else, was just too depressing to bear. “You're strong that way, powerful. You don't let your emotions trip you up. It think it makes you a better Slayer, like you're focused, stalking your prey, not thinking about... a bunch of other stuff.”

“Yeah,” Faith agreed grimly, maybe a little mockingly, “that's me. Fearless hunter, hardened killer. At your service.”

Mercifully, Willow was spared having to respond to that by Buffy's return. True to her word, she came bearing clothing, maroon sweats with gold letters and piping, complete with a hooded pullover, standard issue Razorback gear. No sooner had they all gotten dressed and shoved Willow's torn velvet gown into the cabinet with the bullwhip, when Oz, Xander, Cordelia and Giles all came trouping in. “Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood,” Oz said, walking over to Willow and hugging her.

“I decided to change... clothes,” Willow replied nervously.

Oz kissed Willow, then sort of, smacked his lips a little, getting a strange look on his face. “You ta—sme—there's something different about you,” he explained in response to her own deeply worried look. Willow shrugged and tried unsuccessfully to smile. Oz let it go. “I guess the Limo's gone for good,” he said conversationally. “Come on, I'll walk you home. Make sure you get there safe.”


	6. Weird Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If possible, Oz got even quieter. Willow squeezed his hand, a nervous attempt at reassurance, and fought the urge to speak to fill his silence. Her old pal Panic had caught up to her again and wanted to steal the honor of being the last to give her a good tumble tonight but for once Willow resisted. When Oz finally did speak his tone was... not judgmental exactly, but heavy, somber, ominous even. Willow would have almost sworn she could hear his brow furrowing. 'We might not remember,' he mused, 'but that won't mean it didn't happen.'"

“You only have to walk me to my car,” Willow said, when they got outside. There was an awkward pause. “But I could give you a ride home,” Willow added hopefully.

Oz gave her his wounded but taking it in stride look. “Well I have the van here,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, that's right,” Willow agreed dismally, primed to expect oh-well-maybe-another-timeishness. She should probably be making sure Xander had a way home anyway. Still... on tonight of all nights....

“So we should probably have sex here and then drive home separately,” Oz concluded calmly, unable to keep a little smile from playing at the edges of his lips.

“Really!” Willow brightened about a thousand watts and gave him a big, friendly hug that ended in only a slight cuddly-grope as they started walking arm in arm to the van. Oz just shrugged and gave in a little more to the smile. From the minute the van door closed, there was even less conversation than that. Well... for a given definition of conversation anyway. There was a lot more of the other kind. Finally.

Finally, finally finally. At long last, between Willow and Oz, it was no talk and all action. Oz grasped Willow's face tenderly yet almost violently, with a sense of restrained passion that made her think pleasantly, excitedly, of making love to Buffy. She grabbed his ass in return, much less gently, and together they crashed to the floor among the amps and instruments as their mouths began to devour one another in a mutually predatory kiss. Willow wasted no time getting her slim hands inside the waistband of Oz's jeans and briefs, squeezing and fondling his cock and balls, skin to skin. Meanwhile, he pulled down her gym pants and begun to explore her wet, sticky cunt with his fingers. That might actually be a problem, Willow worried, hearing the distant call of Panic again. There was no way he could possibly fail to notice... no way to smooth over the obvious fact....

~~~~~

Oz's laugh is as small and dry as the noise of a tiny twig breaking underfoot, and for a moment Willow stiffens, afraid that he is angry, afraid they will end up having a 'talk' after all. In fact, he does speak, but his tone is wryly amused, playful. “Roll over he says, rising to his knees and unbuckling his belt, “Let me show you a trick I know.” Without taking his shoes off, his pants still around his ankles as hers are, Oz resumes deeply fingering Willow's pussy with one hand while he begins to gently rub her asshole with the thumb of the other. After a moment, he rises and backs up slightly on all fours. Without taking his hand from her cunt, he moves his other hand to her clit, rolling it's tiny head between his thumb and forefinger pleasantly painfully. Finally, he lowers his head to her ass, inhaling deeply and growling appreciatively.

Willow sucks in a sharp breath as his fierce kisses begin to land on both of her cheeks. Nipping, tugging, sucking, nibbling kisses. Squeezing and twisting her clit harder at the same time, Oz thrusts his face between the twin globes of her buttocks and licks the length of her crack, paying a little extra attention to the tiny rosebud of her asshole, but just a little. At the same moment that he delightfully releases the pressure on her clit and almost immediately begins rubbing it again, gently this time, from side to side in concert with the gentle upward pressure of the three fingers of his other hand inside her, he sets to laving her little flower in earnest, loving it with is eager tongue.

His tongue and his way of using it are so different from Buffy's and yet so much the same. The wet, slurpy eagerness of it, as if munching her ass is truly a pleasure, as if nothing else could be so delicious or desirable, that is the same. But this time the act is less penetrative, more caressing, like an intimate massage of the sphincter muscles themselves. As her puckered flesh begins to soften and relax, his tongue does begin to slip inside her, very shallowly at first, then just a little more deeply but the overall feeling is still more one of being kissed than fucked.

Willow only realizes that the sensation in her clit and her asshole has been so intense that she has actually momentarily lost track of what is happening in her vagina when she feels one unbelievably damp and sticky finger gliding smoothly into her well prepared posterior orifice. It is only when the digit is withdrawn, dips back into her swampy cunt and glides into her ass again, even wetter and slicker than before, that Willow finally starts to get wise to the 'trick' Oz has in mind. When on the fourth or fifth journey the tool of this trick is upgraded to a little hook of two fingers, carrying the slippery mixture of guy-cum and womanly fluids in tiny little spoonfuls, lubricating and stretching her much more fully, her suspicions are confirmed.

Willow's whole body wriggles with happy anticipation. Her heart is light and dancing. Somehow, amid all this debauchery, Oz has found one last bit of her virginity that she can offer to him after all. That he has discovered a way to share such an intimate first with her, even while using the marvelous products of her earlier adventures to smooth his way, only proves that Oz, like Xander, Giles and Buffy is also her one true mate. When his two slick fingers have abandoned their shuttling, shoveling task and are easily sliding in and out of her relaxed and happy asshole, pleasuring her in ways she has never thought to imagine before tonight, Willow cries out that she is ready to be fucked at last.

The first push is shallow, partial, experimental. The head of his cock enters easily at her rear port. The sensation is tight and filling but not quite painfully so. Groaning with pleasure, Oz slides in a little deeper, and at last the sensation is delightfully painful for Willow as he finally slides all the way inside. She gets used to it too quickly, this sense of being filled and completed by his cock inside her ass. She needs more, needs the give and trust, needs to be fucked. She tells him, she begs him, she commands him to move; and so he does. At first his strokes are long and slow and infinitely gentle. At first, that feels delightful. But soon, again she wants more, and with her steady encouragement, her constant assurance that he is not hurting her any more than she wants him to, needs him to, that in fact, nothing could feel better, he falls into a pattern of steadily increasing the speed and force of his thrusts.

Oz is groaning and whimpering now, like a dog who wants to be petted so bad he can hardly stand it. He is holding back his orgasm, Willow realizes. She longs to tell him not to hold back, but after everything she has shared with others tonight, she cannot deny him the pleasure of feeling her come while he is planted deep inside her last pocket of relatively untouched flesh. Her first anal sex is for him only and must not be any less that the firsts she has shared with her other only loves. Willow pulls and rubs and tugs at her overused pleasure button, forcing it past the high plateaus that have been built up in the course of this hyper-climactic evening. As she begins to shudder with one last exhausting orgasm, Oz lets go and comes inside her at last. The spurt of hot liquid into her bowels is the perfect expression of finality. Willow is beyond spent. She is done.

~~~~~

Willow lay in Oz's arms a long while, snuggled into the crook of his body like the smaller of two spoons. The floor of the van was cluttered, uncomfortable. But that didn't matter. Neither of them was in a hurry to break this moment. Maybe they were both a little frightened of the next one. When Oz finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Wanna tell me about it?” he asked.

Willow laughed nervously. She almost went for the old 'tell me about what?', but Oz was too smart for that. Besides, he was too important to her. “It was a spell,” she admitted miserably. “I didn't mean it to work like this,” she added hurriedly. “And it's only tonight, I swear. In the morning no one will remember any magic or sex that happened tonight because of me.”

If possible, Oz got even quieter. Willow squeezed his hand, a nervous attempt at reassurance, and fought the urge to speak to fill his silence. Her old pal Panic had caught up to her again and wanted to steal the honor of being the last to give her a good tumble tonight but for once Willow resisted. When Oz finally did speak his tone was... not judgmental exactly, but heavy, somber, ominous even. Willow would have almost sworn she could hear his brow furrowing. “We might not remember,” he mused, “but that won't mean it didn't happen.”

“No,” Willow admitted, “I guess not, but I love you Oz, and I'm going to be with you and nobody else from now on. And somehow tomorrow we will wake up and both know the time is right, we'll just know it, you know?”

“Like people do in all those fics you read?” Oz asked, getting to resigned/relieved and affectionately amused much sooner than he should have, obviously still affected by her spell. “The ones where people wake up with each others names written in their navels?” Willow nodded, feeling immediately relieved and only distantly guilty. “Will I also somehow know not to agonize about it being your first time and if I'm leading you astray?” Oz asked.

Willow's laughed happily, relaxing into the knowledge that nobody really minded anything tonight. “Oh Sweety,” she said, snuggling back further into his embrace, “That ship sailed a long time ago.” And then she was sorry, because there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere that told her in this case, maybe he did mind. Well and after all, Oz was her actual boyfriend, the one who had a right to mind. Sometimes even in the porniest of fanfics the the priorities established by canon relationships could be a problem.

“Of course,” Oz said, with maybe just the tiniest hint of self-deprication. “I don't know why I assumed...”

“Well I didn't say,” Willow defended him from his own self-judgment. “I mean, even times when it maybe would have made sense to say something. But, I mean,” she rushed to defend herself as well, “it's not like I said I hadn't, just that there are steps you know with the taking of them, that I might not yet be ready to take with you, I mean it's not like I have a standard three-dates-and-its-time thing that I didn't let you in on. It was just the one time, well, before tonight anyway, and it was you know, a long time ago and, and, and...”

“Willow,” Oz interrupted her, the firm gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder matching the gentle firmness of his tone. “It's okay. You don't owe me an explanation. I mean, I knew it was something with you and Xander, something about the history that I wasn't getting, which I totally get. That's, you know, private, between you two and we weren't there yet, privacy wise. It's okay. At least... now we are, at least for tonight. For tonight we're here. So... stay here with me tonight?”

Willow whined a whine of sad-that-that's-so-sweet-and-wish-I-could longing. “I can't,” she argued.

“Sure you can.” Oz said it like he was stating a positive and well known fact. “We can maybe sleep a little and wake up here together and then, even if we don't know exactly what happened, we'll still know it happened to us. I mean,” he ran a loving hand along her bare thigh, a slight smile in his voice, now that he was being charming Oz, “from what I gather, you're going to have a hard time not noticing that you've had a massive amount of sex with someone. It might be a little less scary if it's not quite such a mystery who it was.”

Willow was sorely temped by his forgiving touch and hardworking, almost plausible logic. But she really couldn't, could she? Stay out all night? On a night her parents were (probably) home? Sleep in a van with her boyfriend? Willow smiled to herself, toying with the idea of inviting him back to her room. Tonight of all nights, her parents might actually allow it. She could show him her fanfics and explain all about the spell, how it hadn't been meant to hurt anyone. How she had done it all for him, to save their clearly worth saving relationship from the ghost of first lovers past. “I don't know,” Willow murmured, stalling for time to think this all out, to see if there was any possible way. Yes, her parents would definitely allow it. Heck, tonight if she wanted to put a bra on her head and use her computer to magically summon Doogie Howser from the aether, her parents would probably even let her do that.

Willow imagined it for a moment. Tomorrow she would wake up with Doogie Howser in her bed and no idea how he had gotten there. If it wasn't for the weight of Oz's serious expectations, Willow would have laughed out loud. It didn't matter what her parents would allow tonight, because in the morning they would be as clueless as anyone. They would never _believe_ they had allowed it. No, if she spent the night with Oz tonight, it would have to be in this van. A van that was outside. And not one of those kind that has a bed in it and really it's almost like a camper or a mobile home type vans either. Just a plain old vulnerable motor vehicle. In a town full of vampires....

And suddenly Panic broke through all of the barriers Willow had been using with her all night. Suddenly, Willow remembered what she was supposed to be panicking about. “Oh, God, no!” she wailed, “Angel!”

As if on cue, the cargo doors of the van were ripped open. No, ripped off. “Hello, Lover!” Angel's voice slithered from between his fangs. “You called?”

“No, I just...” Willow started to squeak.

Oz tried to get to his feet, already shouting, “You stay away from her!” as he struggled to pull his pants up with Willow still practically in his lap, struggling to pull her own pants up and rise from the floor of the cramped, cluttered van. Frantically, Willow groped the world around her with one hand while she kept tugging at her pants with the other, searching for a suitable weapon amongst the clutter.

“He is a loyal one, isn't he?” Angel smirked, grabbing Willow and tossing her casually out of his way, slamming her against the wall/floor in the not-so-far far corner of the van. “Good doggy.” he grabbed Oz by the balls and twisted, paralyzing him with pain as he lifted him to his feet. “Can you beg?” Oz's knees started to buckled. They looked as though they were about to give way. Angel wasn't letting go. If Oz fell, his testicle would be ripped off. Willow looked on in horror, helpless. Her whole body hurt and she could hardly move she was so sore, dizzy and weak from her exhausting sexcapades, minor injuries and major loss of blood. In other words, she was useless in this crisis she had caused and now Oz was about to die and it was all her fault.

If only Oz could be wolf tonight! If only— Oh God! The spell was still going on! It had never crossed her mind that the spell might still be going on. It had seemed from the notes in Amy's book like a one-good-wish kind of thing. Desperately Willow tried to take it back but it was evidently too late. Or maybe it was just the fact that she was only about 75% sure she wanted to take it back, because, hey, at least Oz wasn't getting his balls twisted off anymore. He was bucking and snarling and, hey, biting Angel, making him flee, chasing him. Hopefully not catching him. Hopefully not killing him, or anyone else. Willow as in no position to worry about that right now. All she could do was hope they both survived until morning so that everything could straighten itself out.

Actually, Willow realized, all but overcome with relief, Angel's sudden back-from-the-deadness was exactly the sort of thing that would happen in fanfic, so he was probably just a very solid figment of her spellbound imagination. In all likelihood he would not exist in the morning and thus she would not have had sex with her best friend's true love, would not have thoughtlessly robbed him of his soul. Wearily, heartily sorry for all the trouble she had caused, glad that so little of it was likely to follow her into daylight, Willow clambered from the van, got in her mom's car, and drove home. Dizzy as she was, she drove the few short miles without incident, which was a good thing. Somehow she didn't think she could stomach to probable results of being stopped by one of Sunnydale's finest on this particular night.

The door was locked, though Willow was sure she and Xander had rushed out without locking it. She used her mom's keys to let herself in, eager to get a sustainingly sugary snack, take the longest hottest shower of her life, change her sheets and go to bed. The sounds of loud, enthusiastic sex coming from her parents bedroom were disturbingly uncharacteristic. Also, there were more than two voices. Willing herself not to think about that, repeating her mantra that in the morning all would be forgotten, Willow opened the refrigerator. She would not have been altogether surprised to see a woman's chopped up body inside at this point, but no, that was comic canon, she reminded herself. Fanfic was usually a little better about things like that. This fridge contained whipped cream, chocolate sauce, fresh cherries and strawberries, an insane amount of butter scotch pudding, two bottles of Champagne, and a cold roast duck. Closing it, Willow grabbed a box of Pop-tarts from the counter and got upstairs while the getting was good, giving thanks and glory to God that she had her own en suite bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, Willow crawled into bed wearing thick, clean fluffy pajama and happily looking forward to being an innocent school girl again. Her sleep was deep and restful. She remembered no dreams. She awoke refreshed, optimistic and ready to face the day. But when she opened her eyes, what she was actually facing was the peacefully slumbering face of Neil Patrick Harris.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Strange Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617691) by [MyEvilTwin (ProtoNeoRomantic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/MyEvilTwin)
  * [Nothing Comes from Nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3922189) by [MyEvilTwin (ProtoNeoRomantic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/MyEvilTwin)




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